


I Walked Into Your Eyes Without a Raincoat On

by sunsetdreamer



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Post-Season/Series 03, Resolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-19
Updated: 2016-04-19
Packaged: 2018-06-03 04:32:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6596803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunsetdreamer/pseuds/sunsetdreamer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It isn’t until he’s already in London that he pauses to wonder if he’s made a terrible mistake. Realistically, he has sailed past his point of no return months ago, but that buzzing in his chest, that sensation that he will burst if he does not move, dissipates the moment he steps off the boat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Walked Into Your Eyes Without a Raincoat On

**Author's Note:**

> It's been an interesting couple months, and my writing is rusty, but fic wheels are turning again, which means I am probably close to turning again. So, hopefully I get to hang around in this sandbox a little longer this time around. Hurray for new things! And hurray for RositaLG, who always pulls me out of my closet when I decide I'm going to live in it forever.

* * *

_Earthquakes shake the dust behind you,_  
_This world at times will blind you_  
_Still I know I’ll see you there._

 **_Come a Little Closer,_ ** _Cage the Elephant_  

He leaves everything. His house, his job. He does not have the lavish circle of friends possessed by one lady detective, but the few he does have are left without a word as well. It’s a very large risk for a careful man – especially when all this effort is for a woman who is as impulsive as he is restrained, a woman who could have changed her mind a hundred times since he had last set eyes (and mouth. And hands) on her – but he feels awake. Restless. His whole body hums with energy and the thought of remaining still is unbearable. He wonders if this is a taste of what Phryne feels. If this is what fuels her constant need for motion and adventure. He thinks that perhaps he can understand, for the first time since before the war, what it is to feel all of life’s possibilities sparking through him at once. Be daring. Be vibrant. Be _full_.

He is good at his job. If his position is not available when he returns, he will find another.

Her unwavering co-conspirator Dr. Macmillan does not do him any favours (initially); she is Phryne’s friend first and foremost. Jack is tolerated because he’s proven himself to be not entirely useless, but that isn’t to be confused with kinship.

(she uses these words almost exactly. Perhaps it’s for the best because her unwillingness to help only strengthens his resolve)

She says all of this before Jack gets the chance to tell her that he is going to England with Phryne’s expressed permission. Then her face transitions from undisguised annoyance to amused surprise, and for the first time, she looks up at him from the open chest cavity on the table in front of her.

(It’s possible that mid-autopsy hadn’t been the most wisely chosen time, but when one has an entire universe buzzing away in one’s chest, a sense of urgency transcends propriety)

“Phryne Fisher. Phryne Fisher asked _you_ to come after her.”

Even Jack is not entirely impervious to Mac’s scrutiny and he feels his face growing heated.

“Truth is often stranger than fiction, Dr. MacMillan.” He manages to sound aloof, and he hopes he looks equally unaffected.

“I meant no offense, Detective Inspector. It’d be difficult for me to imagine the Honorable Miss Fisher encouraging _any_ man to follow her around the world. I’m merely trying to imagine the circumstances.”

Jack clears his throat and shifts uncomfortably, and Mac graces him with a knowing smirk. “I’ll call you with the address. Though it’s certainly not in my best interest to give it to you; who knows what sort of fool they’ll saddle me with in your absence. It’s going to be a bloody nightmare.”

He infers from this that she finds him to be neither foolish, nor a particularly bloody nightmare. It’s as much of a compliment and a blessing as he could have ever hoped to receive from Phryne’s oldest and dearest friend, and he leaves with his signature half smile well settled on his lips.

It isn’t until he’s already in London that he pauses to wonder if he’s made a terrible mistake. Realistically, he has sailed past his point of no return (months ago, in fact), but that buzzing in his chest, that sensation that he will burst if he does not _move_ , dissipates the moment he steps off the boat. The weight of his many risks hits him all at once, and he slows to a crawl as he retrieves his belongings, hails a cab, finds a modest hotel and takes a long bath.

He ultimately decides to seek her out the next day. He’ll be rested, he’ll have his wits about him, and he’ll be far more likely to keep control of himself should he discover she’s changed her mind. With a new plan fully formed, Jack redresses and leaves his room in search of food.

He’s halfway down the last flight of stairs to the lobby when it hits him; it’s faint, but someone nearby is wearing that same perfume that has sunk into the walls of his office back home, into his suits and his coat. He had read a theory once which claimed that olfactory memories were the most vivid, and in this moment, he is inclined to agree. The scent is faint but he is so overcome by the sudden sight of her eyes, the feel of her hair, the taste of her mouth, that he freezes on the steps and does not move again until someone stumbles into him.

The thrumming energy in his chest returns.

Thoughts of an early dinner abandoned, Jack strides with purpose in search of a taxi to take him to the Fisher estate. He’s undoubtedly distracted, and when he sharply rounds a decorative pillar, he crashes into another traveler at a speed great enough to send both parties to the floor.

“I’m terribly sorry,” Jack begins. He’s already halfway to standing, ready to continue on his way. How does one remain still when all the world is one half-hour ride away by motor car?

“Don’t be remorseful, Inspector.”

The voice is smug and at ease, and he finally forces himself to concentrate on where he is instead of where he would like to be.

Phryne Fisher grins at him, the – now less faint – scent of her perfume belatedly finds his nose, and the buzzing in Jack’s chest spreads into his ears.

“Miss Fisher,” he sputters.

Phryne’s smile widens (she _does_ love leaving him unsettled) and she leans back on her palms. “Hello, Jack.”

He smiles back. And they are two smiling fools still comically spread out on the floor of a hotel lobby, earning all sorts of stares ranging from the mildly curious to the downright scandalised. Unsurprisingly, they are too lost in a moment of their own making to take much notice. Until three male employees appear and begin falling over themselves in efforts to be of assistance to Phryne.

“Are you injured?”

“May I help you to your room?”

“A glass of water perhaps, Miss?”

Jack rolls his eyes, picks himself up and dusts himself off while Phryne showers her would-be rescuers with gratitude.

“Having fun, Miss Fisher?” He murmurs drily as they fall into step, heading toward the front entrance.

“Always, Jack.” She grins.

They step out onto the busy street. England is living up to its reputation for being grey and dreary, but while the weather is damp, the rain appears willing to hold off until the reunited duo can reach their next destination.

“How is it that you found yourself in my hotel?”

“Isn’t it obvious, Jack?” She says flirtatiously. “I was looking for you.”

Jack scoffs. “You had no way of knowing I would arrive today.”

Her eyebrows rise in mock offense. “Your suspicion wounds me. I’m very good at what I do. Better than good, some might say.”

“I don’t believe anyone is that good, Miss Fisher. But I do believe you could be that lucky.”

Her delighted laugh reaches his ears again, and he knows, he _knows_ he has made the right choice in coming to England. Regardless of where they end up from here, throwing this opportunity away would have been a large, block-lettered addition to his List of Regrets.

“I’m on a case.” She informs him conspiratorially.

A mischievous smile dances across her lips and she watches him, gauging his reaction. Although what reaction she expects, he doesn’t know.

“You’re not surprised.” She pouts.

“Quite frankly, Miss Fisher, I would say that ‘surprise’ is an emotion I no longer experience in relation to you, if not for my fear that you would interpret such a statement as a challenge.”

“Come now, Jack. The least you can do is pretend.”

He forgets that he’s tired. That he’s been travelling for months. If he tries, he can even forget that it’s been hours since he last ate. “Of course. Very well; would I be correct in assuming there’s a murder involved?”

“Naturally. Though it’s through no fault of my own… the body practically landed on top of me.”

She links her arm easily through his as they stroll down the street. He had almost forgotten the gentle pressure of her side against him. England is new territory, but it is all of a sudden both comfortable and familiar.

“However did you withstand the shock.”

She ignores him. “Your timing is spot on as usual. The local police have been far less accommodating than the City South Constabulary. But now that you’re here-

“My credentials hold no more weight here than yours, Miss Fisher. I’m sorry to be a disappointment.”

He doesn’t mention that it’s possible he lacks credentials at all, even in Melbourne.

Phryne stops abruptly and he stumbles into her; his free hand instinctively falls to her waist to steady them both. The street is rather crowded and people are forced to move begrudgingly around them.

“You’re never a disappointment, Jack.”

This isn’t strictly true. Not to his recollection, anyway. But she’s in his arms and he’s happy and for once, he doesn’t feel the need to contradict her over something as small as her being wrong.

They round a corner and she stops beside a nondescript vehicle, far less attention seeking than her beloved Hispano. A small pout sets on her lips as the engine turns over less enthusiastically than the car she had left in Melbourne – Jack stares out his window until he is certain his smirk is under wraps. Phryne Fisher; adventurer, pilot, detective, legal guardian, marriage counsellor, and occasional petulant child. He is in love with all of her.

Phryne’s chatter is upbeat as she drives through the city in her typical aggressive fashion. Jack listens to every word, intermittently contributing a wry comment. In a rented motor-car halfway between two hotels, Phryne and Jack are home.

“Where are we headed?”

He’s partially expecting her to take him straight to a crime scene. Or perhaps to the police station. However, on the off chance he’s wrong, he isn’t willing to risk putting the idea in her head.

“My hotel, of course.” She waits a beat. When Jack opens his mouth, seems to think better of it and nods instead, she winks. “The dining is excellent. Not a match for Mr. Butler, of course, but few establishments are.”

Jack meets her eye and allows her to see a hint of a smile. He hadn’t fully avoided the trap, but he hadn’t tripped and fallen head first into it either. It was as good as could be expected; the long months apart have rusted his radar for her teasing. He looks forward to restoring it.

They are arm in arm once again as they walk through the grandiose hotel lobby; she guides them past the restaurant without so much as slowing down. Phryne releases him in order to operate the lift, and then she drapes her arms leisurely across his shoulders. He waits. She presses her lips against his. She is soft. Gentle. Open. Without pretence.

Jack can still be surprised by her after all.

* * *

 

Her hotel room is far nicer than his own. It’s an absent thought that occurs to him between Phryne’s nimble fingers unbuttoning his waistcoat, and her soft mattress hitting his back.

“I almost didn’t believe it was you,” she whispers against his throat. “I told myself that it couldn’t be. But I would know your walk anywhere, Jack Robinson.”

He gasps as she nips the thin flesh covering his clavicle. “You crashed into me on purpose.”

She shrugs. “What else could I have done? You were lost in your own thoughts. Though I’ll admit I miscalculated how very solid you would be. In my defense, it’s been several months.”

Jack’s hands are beneath her skirt firmly gripping the tops of her thighs. “My apologies. Next time I shall do my best to be more yielding.”

She laughs and brings her lips to his once more, and they talk a little less. They explore. They memorise the feel of bare skin, the taste of sweat and arousal. When Phryne eases off the bed and disappears into the adjoining lavatory, Jack releases a deep breath and locks his hands behind his head, opening up his chest and fighting to control his racing heart. He wonders if he can get used to this. If he can adapt to the distracting shots of adrenaline continually spiking his blood.

Phryne is draped in a thin robe when she re-emerges (more for effect than modesty, Jack suspects). And something changes between them, like flipping a switch.

Even now, Jack has his doubts that they can ever be so easily switched back.

They’ve been frantic until this point; flirting with the idea of one another (with the idea of the people they become when they’re together) without any real allowance for the hope of more. But that was before. They are no longer brief heated kisses – both part of the job and not – laced with the desperation of knowing the opportunity may not come again. Phryne and Jack have always been brave, but they have crossed oceans and now they are daring without reservation.

She sends the robe sliding to the floor with a small shrug of her shoulders.

Right. Definitely for effect, then. And now he’s overdressed.

Time slows now. Jack stands to lowers his braces and unbuttons his shirt, but he knows to leave the tie to her capable hands. It’s often concerning how well she can read him, but it’s decidedly less so when he knows that the gift goes both ways.

 “I didn’t allow myself to think you’d come.” It still does not feel real to her. But perhaps this is a blessing; she wouldn’t be able to appear so unaffected otherwise. “Not for one moment. You’ve surprised me, Jack.”

It isn’t like her to be this honest. She’s come too far to really care one way or another, but even still, she is grateful for Jack’s ability to maintain his composure when she cannot.

“Ah,” he nods. “We can’t have that. My mistake, Miss Fisher. I’ll just get back on the boat…” he turns on his heel and Phryne grips his arm tightly, despite recognising his teasing.

“You’ll do no such thing.”

The corner of his mouth turns upward a mere degree, and the full weight of how much she has missed him settles into her chest. But she is an expert at riding out emotion. She knows to ground herself in the feel of his tie, of his sharp jaw. She reaches for his belt buckle without breaking eye contact. Jack is a patient man, and his resilience lasts until she slides his trousers down his legs, careful to touch as much skin as she can manage in the process.

Time speeds up again.

They come apart, and then they collapse together, a tangle of strong limbs on decadent sheets. Jack experiences the new sensation of sweat dampened skin on cool silk. He finds it slightly unsettling, in all honesty. But the weight of Phryne on his chest is… remarkable.

He waits for the fear to return. Fear of disappointing her, fear of what happens next, fear of not being enough. They are, both of them at heart, brave people governed by fear. But her fingers are gently teasing the hair at the nape of his neck and the only feeling left inside of him is tranquility.

Phryne groans and slides off his body to lie spread-eagled beside him. But even in this, she does not give him the chance to miss her. Jack has barely registered her movement before her arms and legs are flattening his own, as if the entire large bed contained her alone. He can’t help but chuckle softly.

“Are you always this unwilling to compromise when it comes to sharing a bed?”

Phryne laughs without opening her eyes. “I’m afraid you’ll have to get used to it, Inspector.”

Jack pushes her surprisingly sturdy frame until she is only occupying slightly-more-than-half of the mattress, and Phryne quirks an eyebrow at the air of mischief surrounding him.

“What is it?” she demands.

“I don’t know what you mean.” His expression is as impassive as ever until she pokes a finger into his side. He just manages to keep from laughing. “I was reflecting on my good fortune. I can’t imagine you could have managed quite so… vigorous, a welcoming if you were staying at your parents’ estate.”

Phryne rolls her eyes. “I managed three days in that house before coming here, and I deserve a medal for those efforts.”

“I have no doubt.”

Jack’s hand absently runs up and down her side, content to touch her in any way he can. Though when his hand brushes against her left wrist, she reflexively flinches away from the contact and then tries – too late – to relax.

He knows to pay strict attention when she pulls back – however briefly.

“What is it?”

“What’s what?” Her eyes are open now and her lips turned upward in her signature brand of flirtatious mischief.

It can be debated whether it’s the smile that gives her away or the fact that her voice jumps an octave, but regardless, the commanding Detective Inspector Jack Robinson silently pulls on her hand. Though he is quick to school his features, Phryne catches a glimpse of stormy waters when he sees the dark bruising surrounding her left wrist.

“Part of your murder investigation?” He asks nonchalantly.

 She gives an indifferent shrug of her shoulders. “A very foolish drunk fancied himself to be a great wooer of women. He fancied my manner of handling wandering hands a little less.”

“Hmm.”

It’s the only audible reply Jack gives, though she notices the gentle way his fingers trace her wrist and the careful, focused flit of his gaze as he searches for other injuries. It’s one of many things which makes Jack special to her. He may not approve of the risks she takes but he does not make his discomfort her own.

She hasn’t spent her time in England pining (she’s been sure to never remain still long enough for melancholy to set in) but now that Jack is here, her heart cannot decide between satisfaction and a homesickness that threatens to overwhelm her every time his warm, bare skin makes contact with hers. Australia always calls to her eventually, but she had thrived for over a decade the last time she had left her home behind; Jack, it seems, drastically hastens the process. She likes him. She likes him very much. And she makes another gesture.

“I’m dining with my parents tonight. It’s an obligation I can’t postpone, as nice as that would be. But you, Jack,” Phryne removes a room key from the nightstand and presses it into his hand, “are encouraged to wait for me.”

She leaves him free to go but also invites him to return. This may be a hotel room, but the offer is not cheapened by technicalities. Jack clenches the metal tight enough to leave angry red marks on his palm.

“I shall take great care not to lose it. Thank you.”

Fastidious and careful beyond measure, no one is less likely to lose a key than Jack. Phryne knows this as well as he does, and she welcomes his attempt to lighten their increasingly heavy mood. They exchange small smiles and no further speech is required. Bit by bit, they grant one another access to their lives with the understanding that they are each exactly aware of how precious and delicate these rare gifts are.

Phryne’s fingers dance across his chest, cataloguing all the pieces that form Jack Robinson. She makes note of scars and though they do not have the time now, she can exercise patience (because what is a few hours when compared to two years?). She will learn him inside and out, because her curiosity is insatiable, and because Phryne Fisher does not do things worth doing by halves.

She drifts off, and evidently Jack does as well; when she next opens her eyes, Jack is sleeping deeply and the dim light trickling in through the crack in the curtains has changed. She’s late. _Very_ late. But it would serve her father right to be left waiting on her, for once.

Jack’s brow is furrowed and she can’t resist smoothing out the crease with her index finger. His features soften under her touch and she revels in the way she can affect him – conscious and not. She can’t recall the last time she’s let a lover linger in her space without her supervision (she can. she chooses not to), but she feels no apprehension as she gets dressed, fixes her hair and her makeup, and allows Jack to slumber on. After all, the time difference does require some adjusting. Poor – wonderful – man.

Phryne brushes his hair back and kisses his forehead before she leaves, but she regrets her impulsive sentiment when he stirs and slowly blinks before she can make her escape.

His eyes are unfocused, his hair is unruly, and her lips are perfectly imprinted on his forehead in bright red lipstick.  She smiles, because if she does not, she will have nothing to focus on but the sharp tightening in her chest that is once again threatening to take over. Perhaps ‘like’ isn’t quite strong enough a word to encompass her feelings for Jack, but now is not the time. They still have tonight ahead of them. And tomorrow. And the day after. And perhaps even many days after that. This is enough.

“Sleep,” she commands softly.

Jack clears his throat. “I won’t have a chance at sleeping through the night if I continue now.”

“A sleepless night wouldn’t be so bad, Inspector. You can keep me company.”

She almost manages to look innocent.

Jack chuckles. “Tempting as that is, perhaps I should take in some sights and establish a routine of sorts.”

“If you insist.”

She should tell him to look in a mirror before wandering the streets of London. She should. But she doesn’t.

“Any suggestions, Miss Fisher?”

“None that would be appreciated by an officer of the law.”

“Hmm. Then I suppose it’s for the best that I’m not here as an officer of the law.”

“While we’re on the subject…”

Phryne’s eyes light up and Jack’s – still blurred from sleep – narrow suspiciously. “Phryne, no.”

“But Jack-

“Didn’t you mention seeing your parents for dinner?”

Phryne curses and rushes to the door. “This isn’t finished, Jack Robinson.”

“I could never be so lucky,” Jack deadpans.

She shoots a withering glare his way, but she is now very, very late, and she can’t afford to dally any longer.

“Make yourself at home,” she calls over her shoulder as she hurries into the hall.

The door gets carelessly slammed behind her and the silence that remains rings in his ears. He never fully remembers how much space she takes up in a room until she leaves it. Jack’s eyes fall to the key sitting back on the nightstand, and he places it in his palm. Turns it over. Tests its weight. His lips move to silently form the word ‘home,’ and he measures the burden of the word in his mouth in a similar fashion.

Home has become her parlour, her front hall, his office (his desk, specifically). Home is fluid. Home is, more often than not, where Phryne is. Home, in this moment, is a hotel room. And for the first time in months, he isn’t restless.

“I believe I already have,” he concludes.


End file.
